I KNOW just the meaning of dust and ashes--for that is what I felt I had had for breakfast this morning, the day after “Carmen.” Lady Ver had given orders she was not to be disturbed, so I did not go near her, and crept down to the dining-room, quite forgetting the master of the house had arrived. There he was--a strange, tall, lean man with fair hair, and sad, cross, brown eyes, and a nose inclined to pink at the tip--a look of indigestion about him, I feel sure. He was sitting in front of a “Daily Telegraph” propped up on the tea-pot, and some cold, untasted sole on his plate. I came forward. He looked very surprised. “I--I’m Evangeline Travers,” I announced. He said “How d’you do” awkwardly; one could see without a notion what that meant. “I’m staying here,” I continued. “Did you not know?” “Then won’t you have some breakfast--beastly cold, I fear,” politeness forced him to utter. “No--Ianthe never writes to me--I had not heard any news for a fortnight, and I have not seen her yet.” Manners have been drummed into me from early youth, so I said politely, “You only arrived from Paris late last night, did you not?” “I got in about seven o’clock, I think,” he replied. “We had to leave so early, we were going to the Opera,” I said. “A Wagner that begins at unearthly hours, I suppose,” he murmured absently. “No, it was ‘Carmen’--but we dined first with my--my--guardian, Mr. Carruthers.” “Oh.” We both ate for a little--the tea was greenish-black--and lukewarm--no wonder he has dyspepsia. “Are the children in, I wonder,” he hazarded, presently. “Yes,” I said. “I went to the nursery and saw them as I came down.” At that moment the three angels burst into the room, but came forward decorously, and embraced their parent. They did not seem to adore him like they do Lady Ver. “Good morning, papa,” said the eldest, and the other two repeated it in chorus. “We hope you have slept well, and had a nice passage across the sea.” They evidently had been drilled outside! Then, nature getting uppermost, they patted him patronizingly. “Daddie, darling, have you brought us any new dolls from Paris?” “And I want one with red hair, like Evangeline,” said Yseult, the youngest. Sir Charles seemed bored and uncomfortable; he kissed his three exquisite bits of Dresden china, so like, and yet unlike himself--they have Lady Ver’s complexion, but brown eyes and golden hair like him. “Yes, ask Harbottle for the packages,” he said. “I have no time to talk to you--tell your mother I will be in for lunch,” and making excuse to me for leaving so abruptly--an appointment in the City--he shuffled out of the room. I wonder how Lady Ver makes his heart beat. I _don’t_ wonder she prefers--Lord Robert. “Why is papa’s nose so red?” said Yseult. “Hush!” implored Mildred. “Poor papa has come off the sea.” “I don’t love papa,” said Corisande, the middle one. “He’s cross, and sometimes he makes darling mummie cry.”